


Sutures

by doctor__idiot



Series: 12 Days of Wincestmas 2017 [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:10:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: “You can’t keep doing this,” Sam forces through clenched teeth, “You can’t keep doing this to me.”





	Sutures

“You can’t keep doing this,” Sam forces through clenched teeth, “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

Dean gives a moan of pain as Sam pinches the wound below his ribs closed with his left hand, biting off a piece of thread.

Dean takes another swig of whiskey, his hand shaking. “Saved your ass, didn’t I?”

Sam grits his teeth against an unfavorable comeback. He starts in on the row of stitches, his jaw setting harder every time Dean flinches at the piercing of the needle. Sam has half a mind to chew him out but Dean is in no state to listen and anyway, Sam is tired of these arguments. Of his big brother’s hero complex, the whole ‘your life is worth more than mine’ martyr shtick.

Sam is so sick of it. So fed up with constantly being scared. Not of getting hurt but of Dean being too much of a headstrong idiot to let Sam do his part, let him do his goddamn _job_.

 _It should’ve been me_.

And Sam would have been okay with that. He may only be back since last year but he’s gotten used to the bruises, the injuries, the blood.

But the sight of _Dean’s_ blood still sends him reeling, makes him see red.

Dean pats Sam’s head once Sam has placed the last suture. It probably isn’t supposed to be condescending, rather meant to reassure or maybe a show of gratitude, but Sam is too angry to think and he bats Dean’s hand away. Dean pulls back, hisses at the tug of the fresh stitches.

He shoots Sam a hurt look and Sam can’t deal with this right now. He ties off the thread and dumps some rubbing alcohol on the wound, hating how Dean’s teeth creak when he clenches them against the stinging pain. Sam feels himself soften, making sure to apply the gauze with gentle fingers.

Dean sighs. He is holding himself stiffly, visibly uncomfortable and clearly exhausted. He grabs for Sam’s hands when Sam tries to get up to tidy away their medical supplies.

“I’m sorry,” he says, slurring slightly, and Sam doesn’t know whether it’s the whiskey or the pain taking its toll. “’m sorry, Sammy.”

Sam closes his eyes. Swallows. “It’s okay,” he says although it really isn’t. “You need something for the pain?”

Dean shakes his head, stubborn as ever. Sam scowls but he isn’t about to force-feed the pills to his childish brother. “Think you’ll be able to sleep like this?”

Dean visibly hesitates and Sam is about to suggest the painkillers again. Then Dean reaches for him.

“Stay with me,” he pleads and he has to be feeling extraordinarily shitty if he’s asking for Sam like this.

Despite his lingering exasperation, Sam chucks off his boots and his jeans and then carefully rids Dean of his own shoes and pants to make him more comfortable.

“Sammy,” Dean mumbles while he tries fruitlessly to settle on his side without pulling on the row of stitches, “Should’a just asked.”

The trademark smirk loses some of its effect against the backdrop of Dean’s too-pale skin but it still makes Sam roll his eyes. He relaxes into the mattress against Dean’s back. Chick flick moments be damned, he grabs for his brother’s hand, squeezing it once before keeping a loose hold on it.

He can feel the restlessness in Dean, the urge to comment, so he says, “I lost Jessica. I won’t lose you. Not because you can’t stop being a reckless idiot. I won’t allow it.”

There is a moment of heavy silence in which Sam realizes that the heat in his cheeks is actually hot tears trickling down. He blinks against the wetness.

“’s just a scratch.”

Sam shakes his head, helpless. “You’re not listening to me.”

Dean squeezes his hand back. “Yes, Sammy, I am.” He exhales carefully, mindful of his ribs.

There is an ugly bruise forming on his right shoulder blade. Sam leans in and softly brushes his mouth over it. Dean shivers and gives a breathless laugh. The sound is so unexpected that the last bit of anger leaves Sam’s body, tension dissipating.

“Sleep,” he says, and after a while Dean does, snoring softly with his face half-turned into the pillows.


End file.
